Of Hands and Heart
by Hams
Summary: Kink meme prompt: Charles is a well-loved author of children's stories. When an accident destroys his fine motor control, he finds himself in the market for an illustrator. Erik is a failed artist looking for a muse. Rating does go up. Erik/Charles.
1. Chapter 1

A/N This is a response to a kink_meme prompt.

Prompt: Charles is a well-loved author of children's stories. When an accident destroys his fine motor control, he finds himself in the market for an illustrator.

Erik is a failed artist looking for a muse. He may not care for children, but there's something about Mr. Blue Eyes that he can't seem to forget.

No powers.

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><p>The bedroom door is cracked open, the yellow light from the hallway spilling onto the foot of a bed where two children are huddled, their shushed whispers and giggles filling the space underneath tented blankets.<p>

Charles sits cross legged with a notebook in his lap. Raven sits with her back against his and her arms around her knees as he reads to her in a hushed voice. They hear the creak of a floorboard and both freeze, eyes wide. But Mother is already asleep upstairs, with an empty bottle of wine and regret on the bedside table. The nurse and butler have both long retired to their separate chambers hours ago, many floors down.

He turns the page.

"...and the X-Men took a vow to protect mankind. They are a team, but also a family. Mutant and proud." Charles finishes and bites his lip, turning to look at Raven's face earnestly. They breathe softly in the darkness but he can still see her eyes light up and her hands clasp together.

"Awesome!" She shrieks at last, grinning wide. "That was awesome!" She lunges and throws her arms around her brother, burying him nose-first into her uncombed hair. He wraps his arms tight around her and smiles too.

She pulls back and shoves him playfully. "You better hurry up with the sequel."

Charles beams and shyly looks down at his small hands stained with ink from his pen. "I suppose I could write another."

* * *

><p>He does, over the course of fourteen years-thirteen volumes published in nine languages. His name is on the tongues of children spanning the globe. The fame, he never saw coming.<p>

The car, though, he did see as it ran the red light. For a moment he feels like a character in one of his books, the telepath, frozen in his own mind. He can feel the scared thoughts and emotions of others around him bleed into him as he bleeds onto the pavement.

.

Charles crumples another piece of paper in anger and throws it to the floor where a small sea of failure has amassed at his feet. He picks up his pen again, pressing it solidly on the paper. _Again_ he tells himself. His hands tremble and the line he tries to draw becomes static with little blips. Charles grits his teeth and tears a new sheet. He straightens up and presses the pen into the paper. _Again_. He takes a deep breath and drags it across the plane. The pen still shakes violently and he presses his right hand down with his left, as hard as he can, to steady it. The tip pokes a hole through two layers of the notebook and bleeds through onto the paper and onto his hands. He gives a cry of frustration and lets his pen fall and the ink flow. His eyes are hot and dry and he buries his head in his hands.

.

He stops, over the course of three years- two more volumes waiting for illustrations that never come. His name begins to fade from the memories of children until his books grace the bargain shelf in the back of book stores. They are the stuff of last years' book reports.

* * *

><p>"I hardly think it necessary," Charles says crossly, glaring at his sister from across the desk. It is late and he can't believe they're having this conversation again.<p>

She throws her hands up in frustration as if she were the older sibling. "Charles! You haven't published in years!"

"Surely the children can wait a little longer," he grouses, leaning back in his chair. The logs in the fireplace crackle behind them, nearly embers now.

Raven crosses her arms over her chest. "I _hated_ waiting. They're probably just as impatient as I was for the work of _Professor X_."

Charles groans. The pen name had seemed so clever that day at the tail end of happy hour. "Raven, I don't need an illustrator. I'm getting better every day-"

"Your illustrations are horrible," she insists. "They always were, actually. Now at least you have an excuse." She grins at him.

Charles gives her a withering look over his abandoned book.

"Oh come on, just meet him," she urges him, her eyes begging him to give in.

"Raven, I've told you before-"

"He's waiting outside. What, do you want me to tell him to leave?"

"_You've brought him here_?"

"Trust me, he's a total fox. And I've got two more lined up for Tuesday if you don't like this one."

"I-"

"You'll thank me later!" She calls over his shoulder as she flounces out of the room.

Charles makes an exasperated noise in his throat and a haphazard attempt to straighten up his desk, righting a tower of papers and shoving his teacups (collected over the last week) to the side.

She comes back after a moment, someone trailing just behind her in the hallway, shoes clicking to a stop on the tile floor. "This is Professor X," she says with great relish, leaning against the door to let a man in a dark suit into the study. He takes off his hat and thanks her before turning to Charles.

He's definitely Raven's type, tall with a strong jaw and a stronger handshake. The corners of his light eyes crinkle when he smiles and Charles grins back uncomfortably (this man is more of a shark, he thinks, than a fox). He doesn't quite know how to tell him his services won't be needed.

"My name is Erik Lensherr," he says, setting his portfolio down lightly on the desk. Charles lets his eyes fall on the worn leather binding and the way Erik's fingers hover just over it as if his work has never been far from his hand. Gentle hands, he thinks.

Charles looks back up to his face. "It's a pleasure," he says, "however-"

Erik doesn't waste any time unfastening the folders' clasps-and Charles guiltily wonders how badly he must need this job- as he lays out the first few illustrations. A small print of a girl swallowed in sprawling sky, watercolours of Dutch tulips. A pastel of a tomcat posing for a portrait, a tumbler of whiskey in one paw and a smoking cigar in the other. They are lovely. He begins to pull out another and Charles needs to stop him.

"I'm actually not looking for anyone right now," Charles says hastily, wincing slightly when Erik stills. "I'm terribly sorry to have wasted your time."

Erik's lips twitch into a slight smile. "I understand. I'm sorry I wasted yours."

Charles shakes his head, "No, no those were wonderful," (and that much is true), "But I'm afraid there was a misunderstanding. Raven, my sister, whom you've met, she thought-"

Erik puts up hand to stop him. "That's quite alright, you don't have to explain yourself to me, _Professor_."

"Mr. Xavier," Charles corrects, flushing. _It seemed like a good idea at the time_. "Charles. Please call me Charles."

"Charles," Erik smiles politely and reaches out to collects his things. And maybe Raven is right, maybe he could use another set of hands.

"Wait-" Charles says, putting a hand over his to stop him. Erik's fingers are long and ink-stained, black charcoal under his nails and Charles wonders if everything he touches is marked with his fingerprints. "Perhaps we can set up a trial period?"

Erik looks surprised. "If you'll have me," he says.

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><p>Please review.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N :)

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><p>Erik's not from here, he tells Charles, has only been in New York for a few years. He's been living out of a hotel for a little more than a month after quitting his last job. Charles doesn't ask why. He does offer Erik a place to stay since he won't be paid during the trial period. Erik accepts and looks about his room with an open mouth when Charles shows it to him. It's one of the fancier ones, with a chandelier and gilded wallpaper, but it also has the best lighting and a desk near the window. Charles hopes Erik appreciates that though on some level, he still thinks this whole thing is a fruitless idea. He invites Erik to join him in the library when he's all settled. Erik tells him he already is. He doesn't have any other suitcases.<p>

* * *

><p>They sit across from each other with a brandy each in hand. The fire laps at the hearth, a warm glow flickering bright against the metal and reflecting off the oak panels of the library walls. It is dim there and the shadows fill most of the room, the firelight reflecting off the grooves in their glass like winking stars. The patterned carpet beneath them is worn with good company and Charles hopes Erik is no exception.<p>

"Have you done illustrations for books before?" Charles asks. He didn't request a resume and Erik didn't seem to have one anyway.

"I'm freelance, mostly, so I've done a little of everything." He hunches over, resting his elbows on his knees with his glass in between. The crisp line of his suit creases with the gesture. "I did a few projects with friends from school and those were along the same lines. They were comic strips."

Charles brightens at that. "Oh, fantastic! Where did you go to school?"

Erik raises his eyes over his glass. "Does it matter?"

Charles falters. "Well, no. I suppose it doesn't. I was just curious."

"It was uptown. I dropped out. Most of my work is pretty uninspired." He says it without a note of bitterness. Resignation, rather.

"Your work is fine to me," Charles points out, frowning slightly.

"It's dull."

"I wouldn't say that."

Erik looks at him quietly. He rests an arm over the back of his seat and the entirety of his chest and face are turned into the firelight, illuminated.

Charles clears his throat. "What did you do after?"

A wry smile creeps onto Erik's face. "I went into the entertainment industry."

"Film?"

"Adult magazines."

"Oh," Charles feels his cheeks grow warm. He couldn't imagine photographing people at their most vulnerable, laid out bare for anonymous masses to consume. Behind the lens, crafting the way these bodies are to be seen and processed as fantasy. Though he briefly wondered if being a writer was so much different, creating false lives for characters that live in his head, shaping ideas into fairytale.

Erik is still looking at him flatly.

"I didn't know you were a photographer, too," Charles says.

"I'm not."

Charles' flush spreads to the rest of his face as he realizes and just manages not to let his jaw drop. "Oh."

Erik doesn't waver. "And then I went back to art."

Charles opens his mouth and then closes it. Then opens it again.

"Why are you here, Erik?" he says finally.

Erik exhales loudly, as if he had been waiting this whole time for Charles to finally ask what he's been asking himself all night. He leans back in his seat to meet Charles' eyes. "I don't know. I have the equivalent of what you might call writer's block."

Charles shakes his head.

"I thought I could use a change of pace."

"These are _children's _books, I must remind you."

"I know. I'll tone it down." He grins and reaches over to click his glass against Charles'.

.

They spend the rest of the evening talking about about books from their childhood. Erik fervently defends the honour of _The Velveteen Rabbit_ and Charles scoffs in favor of _Le Petit Prince_.

Erik gives Charles a look as if he's embarrassed to even be in his presence and Charles gets huffy in turn. "It's a classic, I will have you know."

Erik laughs, the ice in his drink bobbing fondly with the movement. "It's so pretentious, of course you would."

Charles would be offended if he hadn't said it with warmth. Erik leans forward, loosening his collar a bit, allowing the firelight to soak into his skin, painting it orange and darker still where the curve of his neck disappears into his shirt.

Charles follows suit. The heat from the fire is warm on his face and the drink warm in his stomach. His limbs are positively buzzing and he is concerned he's getting a little sloppy with his hand gestures that seem to amplify as the subject drifts to his own work.

"It started as a way for me to keep Raven entertained," Charles explains. "She has a wild imagination- you have no idea-" he laughs as he pushes his hair from his face, "Though I'm afraid I got a bit carried away with the stories, there were so many things I wanted to tell her, show her through the characters. Personal battles, not just action and adventure. I do think she liked the latter more, however." Charles shakes his head, grinning at the memory of Raven pretending to shoot laser beams at their bewildered cat.

"I'm sure," Erik says.

"I never meant for it to become the occupation it did." Charles hums, absently looking to the tall bookshelves behind Erik where the original volumes sit gathering dust. The first book is a wreck, bent and dog-eared on nearly every page from where Charles wrote in revisions for the final publication. A huge, encompassing water stain predates those by ten years, wrinkling the bottom half of the book from where Raven laughed so hard at Magneto's costume she knocked over her glass of water.

"Why did you stop?" Erik presses, a small frown touching his forehead.

Charles eyes drop back to him. "Sorry?"

"I asked you why you stopped."

"It's not that I stopped writing," Charles says hastily, suddenly self-conscious despite the pleasant buzz blurring in and out. He grips his glass too hard to compensate and it shakes in his hand until he has to put it down. He flusters, angry with himself in embarrassment. Erik doesn't seem to notice. "I've just taken a hiatus," Charles finishes.

Erik doesn't look convinced. "Right. A three year hiatus."

"I was churning out volume after volume!" Charles protests loudly.

Erik's eyebrows raise slightly at the small outburst.

Charles bites his lip and says a little softer, "I just needed a little reprieve. Really, that's all." He waves a hand trivially (and a little drunkenly) and Erik watches it move in front of his face in vague amusement. He grabs Charles' hand to stop it.

"Reprieve from the thing you love most?"

Charles doesn't answer right away. Erik's eyes don't move from his, studying him closely. Charles thinks he should smile so he does. "You make it sound worse than it is, Erik."

"Have you always worked alone? Just you, doing the writing and the art?" Erik asks. His fingers press into Charles' palm.

"Well," Charles starts, his eyes falling on their hands. Erik's skin is warm against his and Charles licks his lips nervously. "Well, yes. I like to be self-sufficient."

"Hm." Erik lets go and sinks back in his seat, unsatisfied but willing to take a hint.

And Charles laughs because Erik has been moving back and forth in his seat like a pendulum throughout the night as if he can't decide how long to stay in the same place. It's making him dizzy and he puts a hand to his face to center himself, covering part of his open smile with his palm.

"What?" Erik asks, a small smile creeping onto his face too, although he has no idea why Charles' is laughing.

"Nothing." Though he privately hopes Erik will stay here at least a little while.

.

The bottle of brandy is nearly empty by the time Erik says it.

"I've actually read a few of your books. They're quite good."

Charles smiles messily at him, though he's heard the same thing many times before. "Thank you, my friend."

Erik makes a thoughtful noise, running a hand along his chest as he considers the title. "My friend?"

"Well," Charles backtracks, about to babble something about picking it up from his great-grandfather Basil.

"I'd like that," Erik says.

.

Before Charles stumbles to bed that night, he digs in his medicine cabinet for aspirin, already regretting how much he drank.

As he empties the pills into his palm, he pauses. There are faint black smudges on his hand.

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><p>Please review!<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

:)

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><p>In the morning, Charles walks into the kitchen with only the smallest hint of a hangover trailing after him. He is surprised to find Erik already at the table, pouring over a sketchbook. He is completely still save for the back and forth motion of his wrist with a pencil. The sleeves of his white shirt are pushed up to the elbow carelessly as if it were shoved up rather than rolled. A small muscle in his forearm jumps with the movement and Charles feels a twinge of jealousy pinch at his chest.<p>

"Good morning," Erik says without looking up.

"Good morning," Charles returns quietly. He leans against the kitchen counter with both hands, feeling the weight of his body. He lifts his head up and stares out the window into the yard. The green rolls in soft curves into the horizon where the trees twist into the sky. The sunlight is weak but filters slowly, chasing the fog. He breathes out heavily and turns away.

"Would you care for something to eat?" he calls to Erik, cheerfully.

"I'm alright, thank you," Erik answers absently. He's hunched over in his seat, his head dipped low. The morning light from the kitchen window hits his back and makes the skin beneath the thin fabric visible, glowing peach.

Charles puts the kettle on and pokes his head into the cabinet for tea. "You're awake before me. Raven will be shocked to hear it."

Erik cracks a smile but still sketches away. The scratch of the tip working along textured paper blends into the sound of Charles pouring himself a bowl of muesli.

Charles pulls out a chair beside Erik. "Still life?" he guesses, glancing at the fruit basket in the center of the table.

"No," Erik laughs and glances up at Charles for the first time. It looks like he didn't sleep much but the blue of his eyes hold an easiness that wasn't there last night. "But thank you for not looking without asking first."

"I wouldn't," Charles assures him.

"I believe you," Erik says though Charles doesn't know why he would.

Erik pauses for a while, twining his fingers together before cracking them at the knuckle. He leans his head on his hand and watches Charles eat, the fingers of his other hand brushing against the wood of the table, dragging along the surface idly, never still. "I'm done, for now, if you'd like to-"

"Do you mind if I...?" Charles asks at the same time, fingers already reaching. He never got to see the rest of Erik's portfolio he suddenly realizes.

"Not at all." Erik pushes the sketchbook over to him. It's pencil and obviously a very first draft. In grey graphite, the mansion and the gardens rise up from the ground, smudges of foliage and crosshatching in stone.

Charles' eyes flit over his childhood home, tracing over the detail, down to the morning glories crawling up the wall near the dining room window. He isn't surprised at Erik's skill but he is surprised at his versatility. This looks like an architecture sketch. "Is this from memory?"

"No, I took a walk around outside earlier." Erik says and points to the the west wing of the house that is left unfinished. "I was going to go take another look, actually. Do you want to come?"

Charles looks down at his slippers and robe, rumpled with sleep like he's sure his hair is at any rate. "I'm not quite dressed for it, I'm afraid," he chuckles.

"I think you look fine," Erik says, eyes raking over him. He gives Charles a nudge with his knee under the table before standing up. "Come on."

Charles is half way out the door with him when he remembers he's left the kettle on. He runs back to turn off the stove.

.

He finds Erik outside lying on the lawn, propped up on his elbows as he surveys the building. Charles settles down next to him. It's still quite early and the grass is wet and cold with dew. Charles shivers in his thin robe that are damp now at his bottom and tries to concentrate on the warm patch of sun on the back of his neck.

"Why aren't you illustrating the books yourself?" Erik asks, eyes darting between the page and the terrace. "I don't believe what you told me last night."

Charles stiffens, caught off guard. The grass prickles against his palms.

He hadn't really planned on keeping this from Erik, not really. It isn't a secret, he reasons with himself, he simply cannot bear the sheer pity that accompanies the admission. His mother had lavished the attention, to neighbors and reporters alike. It was ironic that the one time he mattered to her was when he lost everything that mattered to him. _Oh, he was so young. He's useless, now, you know. All that potential taken away, just like that! Imagine! _

Charles looks toward the house because he doesn't want to feel Erik looking at him. The rooftops are stark against the bright sky. "I was in an accident," he says, squinting against its outline. "I can't draw anymore, my hands shake badly."

The silence is unbearable but Charles doesn't know how to say anything else.

"How do you shave?" Erik asks.

Charles turns to him in disbelief, laughing breathlessly, "Carefully."

Erik leans in, a trace of a small smile on his lips. "Alright. Tell me about the story I'm illustrating, then." His breath is warm on Charles' cheek against the morning chill and Charles moves his head back a little.

"They are written for a nine year old audience. I'm sure you can read it yourself," Charles says critically, raising a brow.

"My job is to draw, not to read," Erik tells him, settling back into the sun-dappled grass.

Charles laughs again and puts on a thoughtful face. "Which book did you leave off at?"

.

The X-Men story is long and detailed; Charles has story boards in his room from the earlier days but he knows each characters' story by heart now, knows exactly how he's going to end this last book. It's like closing a chapter of his life. He gets more animated as he goes on and Erik eventually abandons his work, needing his full attention to keep up. He stops Charles to clarify certain points when he's not looking amused at the names of various mutants or silently nodding along. Charles finishes on a breath and watches Erik's face for a reaction.

"So it's a love story then," Erik says simply.

Charles nods, "Yes, about love, and peace, and serenity -"

"No, between Professor X and Magneto."

Charles stops short. "It is intended to be a parable, Erik. About accepting yourself for who you are."

"Looks like Professor X could use a taste of his own medicine."

"He's disabled," Charles says numbly. "There's nothing to accept."

Erik looks bemused. "I was trying to say he needs to accept all mutations, even the 'cosmetically problematic' ones."

"Oh."

Erik frowns at him but says nothing. He turns back to his drawing but only taps at it with the back of his pencil.

They sit there for a while, until squabbling magpies in the tree startle them both.

Charles excuses himself to check on Raven.

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><p>Raven's not up yet, and she won't be until noon. She's never been the same sort of morning person Charles is, despite going to bed earlier on most nights, falling asleep with her head in his lap while he reads to her like they were children (and thankfully rising well after he wakes up with his face stuck to the open book).<p>

Charles passes by Raven's door as he heads towards his own room. He briefly wonders how long it'll take her to realize he's invited Erik to stay and how long she'll gloat with the confirmation that she was right. He grins to himself-he predicts she'll make her move on Erik within the week. Or at the very least, accidentally feel up his bicep at the breakfast table.

Charles closes his door partway behind him and kneels by his bed, ducking his head to the floor. His shoulder grinds into the floor as he reaches for a box under his bed with an outstretched arm. His fingers hit the corner of it and he pulls the box out, along with a lung full of dust that rises in the air and into his open mouth.

He waves at the plumes with his hand, coughing lightly with his other hand pressed to his mouth.

He could show Erik the X-Men illustrations in the published books, but Charles has larger, more detailed drawings of each character as well, tucked away. He opens the lid and is met with Beast's smiling, furry face, his spectacles in hand. Charles smiles back as if greeting an old friend and flips to the next page. Mystique stands with her hands on jutting hips, red hair falling to her shoulders and narrowed yellow eyes already sun-faded from time long spent on the story board.

Perhaps he and Erik can get started on this illustration project today, after all. Erik seemed eager enough to draw _something_ and Charles is curious enough to let him try his hand at these. He feels the excitement stir in his chest and he pulls out the whole stack of sketches, lining them one by one on the floor to organize them. His hands pause on Professor X. Charles' gaze rests on the telepath's serene face and the silver of his wheelchair. There was a quiet strength in him that Charles had written into the story line from the start. Charles traces the circle of the wheels with his finger.

There is a soft knock at his door that startles him and he looks up at Erik leaning against it.

Charles gets up off his knees. "Erik-"

"I'm going to leave for a bit," Erik says quickly, one hand wrapped around the door frame.

"Oh, alright," Charles says, his hand, still grasping the papers, now slack by his side.

"I'll be back later, there's something I need to take care of." Erik lowers his eyes and they fall onto the drawings scattered around the carpet. His lips press together into a flat line. "Did you want to start today?"

Charles glances down at them too. "No," he says. "No, I was getting things in order for tomorrow. We can begin then."

Erik's relief is visible and he straightens up in the doorway with a curt nod. "Tomorrow it is. You can leave those for me to take a look at on my desk."

"I will, my friend."

Erik leaves the room and Charles slowly turns back to the loose threads of a childrens' story.

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><p>AN Please review.

Haha, the next chapter is going to be everything I've been waiting for :l


	4. Chapter 4

A/N Sorry, it's been a while.

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><p>Charles is sitting on the couch pouring over his sketches when Raven finds him at half past noon. She takes the papers out of his hand to put them on the floor before replacing them with her head in his lap.<p>

"Sometimes I think that's all I'm good for," Charles complains, smiling fondly at her. "Good morning."

"Morning," she says, barely bothering to stifle a yawn into his face. He jostles her with his legs and her yawn cuts off short with a giggle-snort. Fitting both of them on the couch used to be an easy task as children; now her feet dangle off the edge and his back cramps more often than not. She kicks her slippers off one by one. "So what's wrong?" she asks pointedly, poking him in the stomach. "You seem kinda down."

"I'm not," Charles objects, wondering when he had become so obvious to everyone around him.

"Whatever, I can see it written all over your face," she informs him. "I saw your abandoned tea cup in the kitchen and thought you were dead."

Charles laughs; he had forgotten all about it. "I've invited Erik to stay," he says carefully, watching her face for her reaction with a raised brow.

Raven sits up in surprise, nearly knocking her head against his. "Wait, are you serious?"

"Yes, Raven. He'll be here for a while, so behave," he warns.

"Holy shit. He's cute but not that cute. Is he good, too?" Her eyes are wide and she looks more excited than Charles feels. He suddenly realizes with heavy guilt that she's been as invested in this as he has been all these years.

"I'm not sure, actually," Charles says honestly, "I think he is, but he assures me he's not. I've told him we'll start tomorrow."

Raven's fingers twist into her hair as she thinks about it. "Are you sure about this?" she says and for the first time sounds uncertain. Her face softens, around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. "I mean, you don't have to just choose the first one you meet, you know."

Charles had thought about this already, but he's already made up his mind. "Yes, I'm sure. I want him." He hums as he mentally catalogues all he work left to be done, where he had left off, and how on earth they are going to manage as a team when they know nothing about each other. He can feel Raven beaming at him and he pulls himself from his thoughts with a wide grin. "Thank you for putting up with my stubbornness," he tells her though he supposes she already knows.

"And your nerdiness, your arrogance, your attitude problem," she counts off her fingers.

"Yes, thank you for that," Charles glares at her half-heartedly.

Raven pulls him into a rough hug and he laughs, kissing the side of her head.

"I can't believe you made me wait four years," she grouses into his shoulder. "It better be good."

"Oh, it'll be something," he assures her.

* * *

><p>Charles is falling asleep at his desk when Erik slips into the study with two cups of tea. Charles looks up from his typewriter and smiles at him. "Thank you," he says, accepting the teacup. His hand shakes as he lowers it to the desk and he hates the way the spoon rattles along the porcelain. It's nearly five am, the grandfather clock's hands are large enough to see even in the dim light.<p>

Erik is still dressed in the clothes he left in, but they smell like liquor and cigarette smoke. "I just saw the illustrations you left me," he says, "I was hoping you were still up."

"I am."

He takes a seat next to Charles, peering over the manuscript spread over the desk as if he is reading it but Charles doubts he is actually interested. Charles still wonders why Erik decided to stay, or what he must be doing up at this hour, but refrains from asking any more on both fronts, pleased with the unexpected company. The dawn glow tumbles onto the desk and stretches over the carpet and half of Erik's face as Charles watches him read. Erik mouths the words silently, lips curving around each syllable and Charles thinks perhaps if he tries he can tell which line he's finished. He stares at Erik's mouth, parted for now. It looks like he's drinking in the dusty light.

"What is it like?" Erik asks and Charles' eyes snap up.

"I'm sorry?" He says, his face heating slightly.

"To not be able to draw anymore." Erik looks at him. His tea is untouched.

Charles' eyes drop to his hands-still for now- resting on either thigh. He considers this. "You take all sorts of things for granted."

"I've-" Erik's thumb runs across his cheek. "I've always chosen when I wanted to give up. Or when to quit trying, I've never-" Erik pauses. He licks his lips as if to speak, but doesn't, only leans his hands against the desk, heavy.

"Never what?" Charles doesn't know what's happened to Erik between art school and now, doesn't know why Erik will illustrate a child's story tomorrow with alcohol rising off his breath tonight. Part of him hopes Erik finds what he's looking for. The other part hopes that whatever it is, it is something he can hold onto once he finds it.

"I don't know if I can mimic your drawing style."

Charles frowns in confusion. He seriously doubts that-at least from what he has seen- Erik said himself he's done a little bit of everything. But then Erik takes Charles' hand in his before he can protest. "Look," Erik says, as he grasps it easily for the second time. "I've been thinking about you all night." His eyes are dark but with a crystallized intensity that makes Charles shiver. His hand trembles lightly and he isn't entirely sure if he can blame his damaged nerves. "I want you to show me," Erik tells him quietly, nodding to a piece of scratch paper.

A spark of panic rises in the back of Charles' head. "I can't anymore." Charles jerks his hand back. "I've already told you."

Erik tightens his grip. "Just try, Charles."

"I've tried before, I can't." Charles is half frustrated already, and looks up at Erik under drawn brows. He doesn't know what Erik is trying to do and his heart beats loudly in his chest.

"What are you so afraid of? If it doesn't work out, it's just a doodle."

"I know that." Charles insists but Erik doesn't let go. The determination rolls just under the surface, caught in the set of his jaw, the set of his mouth. Erik brings their hands back to the paper stubbornly. Charles sighs but lets him hold on. "Alright," he concedes.

"Draw Beast," Erik prompts. His chest just barely presses against Charles' as he leans over him, his body warm and solid against his. Charles can feel Erik's breath rifle softly through his hair.

Charles props the pen on the paper with the heavy weight of both their hands. He hasn't done this in years. The ink already bleeds into the paper, blooming and familiar. He hesitates.

Erik's eyes are stern though his voice is not. "I'll keep it steady. You take the lead, I'll finish."

_Beast_, Charles thinks, exhaling loudly. _Alright, once more. _He presses his pen to the page.

Charles guides. Erik draws.

It's horrible.

But it is liberating somehow in an absurd way and the feeling bubbles up in Charles' chest before he can stop himself. He laughs so hard he draws Erik down with him, though he can barely make him out through the film of tears in his eyes. Erik's thumb presses along the inside of Charles wrist, his fingers still wrapped tight around his. So tight that Charles is nearly certain Erik can feel his pulse beating under his skin, keeping time tethered. Erik's hand moves lower, and for a moment Charles can't tell if Erik is trying to hold his hand, palm to palm. The thought leaves him breathless.

Erik's elbow knocks his teacup and it clatters loudly. Erik lets go, jerking up from his seat and knocking the chair back with the back of his legs.

"Sorry," he apologizes, righting the cup on the desk before straightening up. "I'd better go to bed. We have a lot ahead of us tomorrow."

"We do," Charles agrees, though he isn't sleepy anymore. He watches Erik walk away.

Erik hesitates at the door, looking back over his shoulder. "Goodnight, Charles," he says softly.

"Goodnight, Erik."

* * *

><p>AN Please review.


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